Althea Cruz sat by the window, dressed in clean Overwatch-issued fatigues that had been tailored down to fit her frame. The fabric still looked too crisp, too sterile, compared to the dust-caked days she'd survived in the field. Her brown hair, freshly washed, framed her face in soft waves that hung just past her shoulders. It still held a hint of tangling from the road, but she wore it naturally—no fuss, no vanity. Her features were striking—sharp cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, a calm expression that belied her youth. At eighteen, she was beautiful, but there was a steel in her gaze that made her seem older.
She looked up as Thomas stepped into the room again, this time without the usual folders or digital tablets in hand. The guards outside the door remained silent. It was just the two of them now.
Thomas sat across from her, folding his hands on his lap.
"Althea," he began, "you said your mother didn't make it out of Malacañang."
